


step out of line (he’s making an example of you)

by desiredeffect



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desiredeffect/pseuds/desiredeffect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes York is a hypocrite.</p>
<p>Okay, make that most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There isn't protocol that says otherwise, but there's an unwritten implication in their routine to say that the members of Project Freelancer are not _supposed_ to train together, unless scheduled to by the Director himself under the pretence of teamwork. That’s not to say that it really works, it's often largely ignored by all of them, in particular by the Dakota twins who specialise in predicting each other's movements three paces ahead of everyone else. This comes _before_ they blur the teamwork lines to accommodate the other Freelancers that orbit around the sometimes slightly unstable centre they present. 

Carolina on the other hand prefers to work by herself, running drills constantly, repeatedly, perfecting her efficiency time, and cementing her place at the top of the leader board like it’s the only thing that matters.

 If he had to choose a preference, if pressed for a response, twisted on the nerve, York would probably side with Carolina on the training alone thing - but working himself to the bone for a number one spot has never really been his style. The only exception to the alone rule is Delta, who overrides FILSS' voice, tone flat as he delivers the factual results, running the numbers and blandly informing him if he is coming up short.

He's knows it's petty, that his time logged onto the floor is rarely recorded for playback purposes as he implores Delta to wipe all the cameras, but he prefers not having certain people getting all up in his business for his times. He suspects that Delta still records them for the Director's use anyway, but he doesn't mention it and York doesn't want to run the risk of a false call.

"One point zero three per cent increase in efficiency." Delta's readout flashes neon green in the left corner of his helmet, and York takes a moment to draw in a few sharp breaths, loosening his stance and sliding back into fight mode. His body is starting to run heavy with exhaustion, a serious ache in his right shoulder and he knows his movements are incrementally becoming slower.

He should quit, really he should, just head over to Recovery One for the cursory once-over and inevitable painkillers.

"Run it again, D." Sometimes York is a hypocrite.

Okay, make that most of the time.

"Acknowledged." The floor resets, the sharp grate of granite against steel as the columns rise to grind to a halt several inches above his head. York sighs in resignation, pressing his back against the stone and lifting his weapon.

“Delta?” he questions the empty air, listening for the sharp click of metal plates receding. Delta appears at his shoulder, his glow dimly illuminating a short circle of space. The sudden appearance at his shoulder still startles him, skin prickling with sudden anxiety until he remembers it’s nothing to be afraid of, but realistically it’s nothing compared to the insane migraines that accompanied having another brain meld in with you. "Round?" he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Lockdown turrets initiated, Agent York,” Delta’s voice is mild, and York muffles a groan. He fucking _hates_ lockdown training. Not only does the stuff take fucking forever to remove from your armour if you don’t override the system and engage the hose down (that is literally what it is, a giant hose, in your face – sometimes York thinks the Director is out to kill them with a prank, or would be if he had a sense of humour), but if you get caught particularly off guard you're potentially stuck until someone else meanders in to save your ass. 

It’s either that or it’s left until you somehow managed to limp out of sight to lick your own armour in private - though there was the memorable time Wyoming got stuck for eight hours after refusing FILSS' offer to contact someone else and South's never let him live it down since she found him. Alternatively to both those options, there’s always shame, and it's a fine line when there's a leader board involved, apparently.

"On my mark - three," he mutters, throws a quick glance right, "two," the pump of the shotgun is almost lost in the whirr of over-eager machinery, "one," and he propels himself over the granite block and straight into a maze of columns.

Delta's voice rises above the cacophony, and if York did not know any better, he'd say that the AI was enjoying himself, "Lockdown training sequence engaged. Good luck, Agent York."

"Don't need it, D, got it all under- _shit_!" He whips around, the tell-tale hiss of foam splattering against the wall, and suddenly the game is _on_.

The turrets are stable, separated by intervals of about ten feet and rotating on the horizontal axis at, he judges, approximately four point three seconds per complete circle. He darts around a corner and jumps, shotgun already aimed as he rebounds off the column and the turret blasts apart in a screech of metal and bursts into flames. York whistles appreciatively for all of half a second before spinning off and running back in amongst the cover.

That’s kind of where it stops beings easy. After the first few directs hits, Delta’s voice sounds in his helmet, “variables added,” and damn it, the artificial intelligence really is enjoying himself. York has to respect that, it’s not every day you basically receive a little miniaturised version of yourself. You know, implanted straight into your head.

Well, Delta’s still picking up the whole _lovable roguish bastard_ persona, or any of York's habits in general but—

“Ah, _fuck_.”

He slides around the corner, a fraction of second too late and a smattering of lockdown on his left, shin-to-knee, welding the armour together in foam that’s almost harder than steel. He cocks the shotgun, as he drags the leg around the corner and out of range of those nasty little creatures.

There’s another short burst of flame as York fires, but he knows he’s being hampered by his sudden inability to manoeuver the way he should be able to, his leg locked out straight is making running nearly impossible. He makes the best effort however, pulling the traitorous leg behind him as he skips behind another column, pulling into an aborted combat roll and coming up in a crouch.

Right in front of another turret.

“Agent York,” Delta says, a phantom twitch at the back of his mind.

“Not _now_ , D,” York growls, and squeezes the trigger. He swears under his breath, trigger arm glued to his chest plate as he catches a hit to the right side. Great, that means manual shutdown, which means exposing himself for an extended period of time.

That can only end well.

He takes a breath and scrubs it over the face of his helmet, makes the count in his head. Four turrets, now shifting in the y-axis of the dome, due overheard in five.

“Readings indicate that you should—” Whatever Delta was about to say is cut off by another blast on York’s six, and he twists his head as far behind him as he can see. He’s good, but not good enough to fire a shot without looking let alone _not touching a rifle_. There’s another gun shot, the whip crack of a loud shout and seriously _what the fuck_? “—seems you have a visitor.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Delta,” York mutters dryly as another turret explodes in a shower of scattering metal, “they never mentioned you had top observational skills.”

“In actuality, Agent York, all I meant to say was that hindsight is, as you would say, twenty/twenty.”

York can’t help the laugh that escapes him, half-disbelieving, half-genuine. “What?”

“This is, admittedly, outside of the range of limited data that I have been able to gather on their character,” Delta continues, and York takes pause at that.

“What’re you talking about, D?”

Delta responds by looking left, and York follows his line of sight only to see, "Washington?"

Jesus _Christ_ , he'd never even heard the kid approach the training room. His armour is entwined with lockdown, a heavy wad of goo that has him literally rooted to the spot, right arm pinned to his side. He raises the pistol with his left, fires three, four, five times, and there's a metaphorical age between the shot and the distressed hiss of overheated turret.

“Rookie's actually pretty good,” he concedes to himself, but Delta doesn't look convinced.

“Agent York, there is still one turret remaining.”

“York!”

“The hell are you doing here, Wash?” Turret or not, it's a legitimate question. Seriously, what _is_ he doing there? Questions about York's inability to sleep before five in the morning aside, this whole situation is getting increasingly weird. Wash is there. Wash shouldn't be there. Wash who is opening his mouth to say something most definitely should be resting, or failing at being competent at skateboarding in some place that isn't York's training session.

It doesn’t make sense, they’re not even friends.

Wash who is yelling at him now, waving his one good arm - in greeting or in warning York doesn't actually know because he's still kinda stuck on the _Wash_ _is here, why is Wash here?_ \- and the fact this isn't an actual combat zone is probably what saves Wash’s life. 

York winces automatically in sympathy, and even Delta makes a disgruntled humming noise under his breath as the turret clicks up overhead, sighted on Wash, and fires.

The foam hardens instantly, hanging in frosted pink stalactites over Wash’s helmet, shoulders, and _yikes_. Washington teeters for a moment, caught viciously off-guard and halfway into the motion of falling, but York knows the beauty of a distracted enemy. He turns to an angle, placing Wash out of sight behind him and waits, counting the seconds silently in his head as he clenches and unclenches his right hand, just testing the limit.

Wash falls, tipped a little too far on the scale, and York curls his hand into a fist as hard as he can, fingers relenting and squeezing the trigger _just_ hard enough.

“Round: York,” Delta murmurs, “disengaging turrets. Commencing quarantine process, approximated completion time: two minutes and fourteen seconds.”

York drops the rifle as soon as he can, flexes his fingers, before striding over to Wash several heartbeats later when movement returns to his left knee. 

“Washington?”

His legs are still trapped, which means he can’t run, but Wash’s voice is almost anything but meek when it returns with, “York?”

“Care to share with the class?”

Wash has probably got the decency to look embarrassed, but it’s hard to tell with the armour on. York pulls Wash upright, despite the fact he’s still covered in lockdown from the waist southward. The pistol clatters to the ground, and Wash starts rubbing at his wrist trying to save some feeling in there before it seizes into pins and needles. The foam is disintegrating, and York suddenly feels the intense need for a long shower.

“You looked like you needed the help,” Wash mutters sullenly, reaches up to pull his helmet off.

Huh.

He glances toward the leader board, hands automatically tugging at his helmet which detaches easily until he’s holding it between his palms. He shakes his head absently then looks back at Wash with a quirked eyebrow. “Don’t worry about me, kid. I can take care of myself. Second best fighter on the crew and all that.” 

“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing,” Wash snaps back automatically, and York has to admit that he has spirit. He wonders how long that will last after it all starts grinding down on top of him.

“And where was that?” he asks, biting the inside of his cheek almost absently to stop himself from smirking.

“The observation deck, where I alw-happened to pass by. On the way for coffee. To the kitchen. For coffee.”  

York kind of nods in an understanding-but-not-really way, steps around him, but catches his hand on Wash’s chest-plate. He drums his fingers there absently, as Wash turns his head to look at him curiously. 

“Are you fucking with me? Because you are a terrible liar,”he mutters lowly, dangerously, and holy _shit_ , Wash windmills his arms a little as he flails, his attempt to move back and flee aborted suddenly by his lack of leg movement.

York can’t help it, he laughs, and it’s great because it’s carefree, a genuine reaction to something amusing, and those have been fewer and farther between as of late.

“I’m just screwing with you, but seriously Wash, if you wanted to watch me in private all you had to do was ask.”

He’s still laughing as he heads out of the training room, because he was not joking about showers, hygiene is important and he stinks, but he can’t help it with Wash’s indignant splutters in the background.

“Hey, D?” he calls, and Delta’s warm glow is immediate. “Turn off the decontamination; he should be able to move – mostly.”

“It appears that Agent Washington is still in need of further decontamination. My data indicates that he requires another full minute of—“

“D,” York says cheerfully, “just this once, don’t argue,” and as an afterthought he adds, “and tell FILSS that _Agent Washington_ has it all under control and will not require assistance.”

Delta’s dims momentarily, then brightens as if in understanding of York’s implications.

“Understood.”


	2. instilled in your brain (you've got something to prove)

He’s got a mug of coffee in one hand (third of the day, who knew Thursdays were so trying _?_ ) and is humming aimlessly to himself in the observation room. The room is as quiet as a ghost, save for the endless drone of mechanics and FILSS’ reassuring whirr. Oh, and yelling that barely reaches over the sound of gunfire, can’t forget that.

“Good afternoon, Agent York,” FILSS croons softly, as much as a machine can sound sultry, and she must decrease the sounds filtering in as the background noise drops to a distant buzz.

“FILSS, baby,” he replies easily, and sets his cup down on the metal with a clunk. “How many times have I told you to just call me York?”

There’s a short moment of silence, York resists the urge to roll his eyes at the display, before she answers, “Thirty-two times, _Agent_ York, the same number of times I have suggested you would need to designate time to a complete overhaul of my circuitry.”

“I’d buy you dinner first at least, FILSS,” York drawls cockily, and her answering crackle of speakers as she disregards his response starts a laugh. The yelling continues but York is reveling in the quieter silence of the observation room as compared to the rest of the Mother of Invention.

Though, if we’re being totally honest, and York’s not one to lie, which in itself is a lie, and not a very good one, the observation room is his second least favorite place to be when he’s in a good mood.

His least favorite is down _there_.

York leans back, front legs of the chair tilted up dangerously so, with what barely passes for literature, let alone _terrible_ literature, opened to a random page in his lap. It’s full of clichés and impossibly handsome leading men, like something out of those shitty romance novels York knows that Connie keeps under her bed.

Connie doesn’t know he knows this – but, in his defense, he’s an infiltration specialist, locked doors are just a temptation.

After that, it’s a matter of once you’re there, what’s the point in not snooping around?

He ignores the yelped _fuuuuck_ that pierces the noise barrier, and raises the mug to his mouth to take a sip.  Then he promptly chokes on the scalding hot liquid when someone’s hand drops onto his shoulder. He drops the mug onto the table, ignoring the way it burns as it splashes up along his arm, chair legs scraping as he slams them down on the concrete and pushes back into the legs behind him. Mid-motion, barely a split second after there’s a grunt indicating he’d hit his target, York’s twisting on sheer instinct as he grabs the hand that’s hovering in the air and squeezes tightly on bones of the knuckles.

“ _Hey!_ ” North’s deep rumble of pained surprise finally penetrates his instinctive fight response (he’s pretty sure the flight reaction died out years ago, it would sure explain how he seemingly dives headlong into disaster after disaster), and York presses once more, hard, before letting go. He turns around, apology already on the tip of his tongue, but North’s just standing there, waving him off before it can even be verbalized. “Forget it, it was my fault.”

“Damn right it was! Sneaking up on me like that is just not _cool_ , man.” Now with complete absolution on the issue, York’s mostly happy to blame North for it. With a grin of course, because he’s all about joking about it now that it’s no longer a problem. He swipes a hand up his arm, catching the rapidly cooling coffee before it sticks forever to his skin. The stinging has lessened, and he wipes his hand on the table without a second thought.

“Uh huh.” He glances up at North’s dry answer, rubbing absently at his right hand with his left. York suppresses a sympathetic wince, because he knows he has a hell of a grip when he wants to, and he wasn’t exactly thinking friend over _incapacitate_ _now_ five minutes ago.

“It’s true.” York’s grin is pulling a little too hard at the corners of his mouth, and North’s eyebrows shoot upward so fast that York almost loses them his hairline.

“Because walking into an occupied room complete with the whole door-opening noise really counts as sneaking. Are you sure you were trained in infiltration tactics at all?”

“Firstly, you’re a cock bite,” York snaps, but there’s no heat in his tone, “and secondly, I was preoccupied. You don’t ninja up to a preoccupied man; it only ends in injury."

North ignores him, steps up to the observation window, and peers down. His mouth tips into a strange little smile, and he raps his knuckle against the glass as he turns back to look at York, who stares at him as if daring him to say anything.

“If you’re trying to hold a conversation, talking is generally the first approved step. I’ve forgotten how to communicate through body language.”

Maybe North will leave if he gives him enough of the silent treatment.

“Is this what you were busy ignoring your surroundings over?”

North apparently sucks at taking social cues, or, as York suspects, it’s a lifetime of dealing with South.

He regrets having met North’s sister, though admittedly not even Carolina had been that nasty on their first introduction, it’s just that York happens to take pride in his appearance, _thanks_.

Though, he’d liked the spark, and she was certainly, if nothing else, an absolute firecracker of a woman. He admires it, but still, he probably shouldn’t have tried to hit on her five minutes after that. North’s never going to let that go as long as he lives, as long as _they_ live.

“No,” he answers after a pause, too long of one maybe, and North huffs in amusement.

“He’s not bad,” North comments lightly, arms folded across his chest, “you should see this. He could probably kick your ass.”

He’s out of his chair, across the room before he knows what he’s doing and, _damn it_ , that was near masterful.

“What’s that supposed to mean, seventh on the bo- _hey_!”

“Just take a look, would you?”

York scowls, but he’s already turning away to look out across the sullen metal floor where Washington is hiding behind cover, gun cocked and at the ready. York can count at least six destroyed turrets, and _huh_ , _how about that?_

“The rookie,” North supplies helpfully like York doesn’t know, and York both respects and detests his persistence sometimes, “you know, the one who trains here every day at eleven, generally an hour before you manage to pull your ass out of bed?”

“Just because something is defined as the _morning_ , doesn’t mean I have to listen to its stupid rules and regs.”

North snort again, hands now shoved into the pockets of his the well-worn jeans slung almost indecently low on his hips. “That was almost a subtle diversion, York.”

“I’m a mastermind of conversational tactics too; I just choose to use them on more important people.” York takes a pointed mouthful of his rapidly-cooling coffee, and mock-glares over the rim of it at North, who graciously doesn’t mention the dig.

York silently has to count that as a win, especially as they don’t come around very often when playing verbal volleys with North – the guy’s like a walking thesaurus of insults when provoked. He turns away again as Wash moves in an almost mirror copy of York’s move from weeks ago, the one he’d practiced, using the column as a launch pad for his next attack, and that’s when it occurs to him.

“He’s relying too much on his right side,” North hums quietly in approval, nodding through FILSS’ announcement of remaining turrets, “just like you do.”

“He’s right-handed, it’s only natural.”

“He’s left handed, York, take a look at the way he’s holding his gun,” North is rolling his eyes, York is sure of it, “and he’s protecting his right side because that’s what a right-hander would do, because it’s easier to keep your dominant side safer than the non-dominant.”

“Better only having one side to keep safe than three, right?” He would hate himself for sounding gleeful about it, but that would be denying himself the pleasure.

“It’s not bad form to be able to protect your non-dominant side,” North continues like York hasn’t said a word, “but it only helps if you can do it equally. He’s leaving himself open to being disabled on his left.”

North looks puzzled, the faintest hint of a frown pulling at his mouth, and he presses up further against the glass causing York to turn back. The rookie is pinned at a column, constantly shifting around it to evade the bullets even though it’s steadily crumbling under fire.

It doesn’t look good.

“He’s going to get his ass shot, and then we’re going to have to listen to him complain about it.” York runs a hand absently through his hair and grimaces when it comes away covered in gel.

North shakes his head in disagreement. “I don’t think so.”

The turrets shift through the cycled commands of order in training (or cater to the simple whims of the overseer - after all this is _FILSS_ ) and spread out forty five degrees on the diameter of the circle that surrounds the outer columns. It’s a sound tactical move, far enough away that they can’t be taken out in a single hit, and the mechanisms that control them ensuring that gap will widen the longer it takes Wash to move, chipping further and further away at the shield until he either manages to destroy them, or they take a chunk out of his armor.

Regardless, York thinks, his reaction time better be close to zero.

Wash clearly has the same idea, twisting around the column one more time before breaking into a dead run. He skirts around one column, and the next, and York has to admire the mental planning in the pattern being laid out before his eyes.

“Maximum protection but keeping their attention,” North mutters, “that’s _very_ good.”

“Save the praise for later, yeah? Before he—“ York groans, “does something like that.”

North’s giving him a look, but York’s too busy frowning to really pay attention. Wash is an _idiot._ He’s landed in the middle of the turrets, crouched on one knee and hand pressed into the floor. He’s wide open, exposed, and York can see how this is going to end.

The answer is badly.

Except, when York takes a breath, neither of the turrets have budged an inch. Focused on the center of the last column, York would be convinced time had stopped if it wasn’t for FILSS’ talking filling the sudden silence.

“Round complete. Congratulations Agent Washington, an increase of ten point seven per cent in efficiency.”

Wash pulls his hand up, jagged strikes of blue skittering momentarily across his palm, and he raises his other enough to tug his helmet off. There’s a broad grin curving his mouth and _shit_ , he looks so proud, so _pleased_ with himself and York can’t even remember the last time he was that happy with himself. It wasn’t on the training room floor, that’s for certain.

York leans forward as Wash stands, rubbing a hand through his hair and still smiling widely. “Did he?”

“Uh huh,” North answers, and of course the fucker isn’t surprised that Wash got an _EMP_ of all enhancements.

“Okay, but did that—?”

“Uh _huh_ ,” North repeats, and there’s a knowing tone to his voice.

“Christ,” York says eventually, “remind me not to be so hard on him next time.”

Wash glances up as if summoned by the mere mention of him, and seeing the grin drop off his face must break some kind of speed record it happens that quickly. York raises his cup in a gesture of goodwill and takes a sip, even as North gives him a thumb up. It was good, the increase in efficiency potentially the most that has been accredited to any Freelancer since the program’s conception, and Wash _should_ be proud. But the longer Wash looks at them, hesitantly, wary, it suddenly doesn’t seem like he’s proud of anything.

He salutes them though, nothing more than a flippant movement of the helmet in his hands to show his acknowledgement before he’s striding out of the room, free hand pulling at the plating of his armor.

North laughs, although there’s little humor in it, and claps York on the back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I'm not going to lie, I had a lot of fun writing this when I wasn't banging my head against a wall from the Delta/York interaction that keeps popping into my head.
> 
> This is set Pre-Tex, whatever that means, but obviously post-Delta, but only just, so York is still kinda getting used to the voice in his head.
> 
> Although to me, it seems, that the 'D' nickname is just something York would've almost had ready, because he likes keeping his shit casual or something like that.
> 
> There is potentially a sequel that's going to happen, hence the whole 'Pre-Slash' thing, because Wash-helping-York-in-training-and-vice-versa just creates too much enjoyment to make me stop writing it.
> 
> P.S This is for Mimi, as the result of a bet about how she would die from sleep exhaustion before I got home from work. She won, the jerk.


End file.
